He looked at himself in the butcher’s mirror: a tarnished slab with a defiant edge. His eyes looked like smooth pebbles with a hole in the middle; however, these holes did not show through, as a real pebble with a hole would, but instead, they showed inside. And what was inside? The deepest dark, like looking through the end of a sweet-toned flute, which never ends.
He only saw himself in the butcher’s tarnished knife for a moment, but it was enough to sever his reflection, and his reflection floated away as the notes of a sweet-toned flute grace the air.
You can look through the hole in a pebble and see the air, the clarity, the emptiness. But is it the same reality as the side you are on?
Or does the butcher’s sweet-toned knife cleave existence in two, as one note riffs over the next.